Last Train Out
by truhekili
Summary: Begins after episode 5.18. Izzie dies weeks after Derek's surgery. Then what? Meredith/Alex. One shot. Complete. I own nothing and make no profit from this story;characters are property of Grey's Anatomy/ABC studios.


Meredith picked two green and one red, shoving them into her bag with the change. Her shift didn't start until midnight, but she had charts to up date, and a surgery to research, and lunatic interns to herd. Stopping at the nurses' station, she grabbed two thick binders, and made her way to the on-call room near the end of the hall.

Opening the door quietly, she noticed his familiar outline despite the dim lighting, and guessed that he was still awake. He usually was. She sat cross legged on the floor beside the bunk, scattering bags and books around her as she retrieved a green apple and pressed it into his hand.

She never nagged him about eating, but she'd promised Izzie, and he liked the green ones best. Settling against the wall, she peeled the lid off her yogurt and opened the first chart, directing the light from the table lamp down on the pages. She knew he wasn't really on-call. But he'd stayed here often enough that she knew where to find him.

She never said anything about it. She got that traces of Izzie's perfume still tinged the hallway near his bedroom, and that her shampoo still stood in the shower, untouched, and that half used containers of pink cake frosting lingered in the kitchen cupboards.

She knew that the house was too quiet, and awkward, with Izzie's room just as she'd left it, and Lexi gone, and Derek planning the new home. Finishing her yogurt, she fished a pear out of her bag, flipping through another binder as she ate. "Clinical trial?" he asked finally, gnawing on the apple core. "Glioma," she stated, handing him another without even looking up.

"Congratulations," he offered. "About the glioma?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "Shepherd," he replied. "Oh," she sighed as she fingered her engagement ring, "news travels fast." "In this place?" he smirked.

Meredith giggled, then grew quiet as she met his eyes. "He hit it with a baseball bat," she added, "his mother's ring!" "Yesterday?" Alex asked. "No," she admitted, "the first time he proposed. We were arguing. The first time didn't take."

"You're always arguing," Alex noted. "We're fighting over who gets custody of you," Meredith huffed, suppressing a laugh. "I knew it," Alex nodded, "you so want me." She rolled her eyes, shaking her head in disgust. His snark was slowly creeping back.

"He wants a big wedding," she grumbled. "He's worse than Burke." "You don't?" Alex asked, crunching his second apple, "I thought that's what all chicks wanted." "I'm not a chick," she retorted, swatting his shoulder.

"He believes in fairy tales," she added. "He believes in happily ever after. He's already been married. What makes him think it'll be any different this time?" "You thinking of bailing?" Alex asked. "No," she stammered, "I… I don't know. He wants vows. He wants promises. He wants…"

"You?" Alex interrupted, picking at the second core. "It doesn't work like that," Meredith snapped, "not for me, not for…" Meredith winced, glancing awkwardly at him.

He eyed her coolly, ignoring the point she didn't need to make. "You freaking out?" he asked.

"He wants to build a castle, on his land, a freaking castle" she blurted. "Like with a draw bridge?" Alex asked, "cool." "Not cool," she snapped, "I'm not selling my mother's house." "You thinking you might need it again?" he queried. "See," she insisted, "this is why you bug." "You afraid you're going to screw this up?" he prodded.

"My mother did," she whispered after a long silence. "She picked the wrong guy, at the wrong time, and she never recovered" "You're not her," he pointed out, burrowing into his pillow. "Oh," she said, "so you're a shrink now?" "Shrinks don't cut," Alex growled, "I'm a surgeon."

"And you bug," she insisted. "You're going to regret this conversation when you're dancing at my wedding." "Not dancing," he mumbled, "won't have a date." She sat quietly, waiting for him to doze off. Gathering her things to leave, she felt him lightly grip her wrist. "I know," she said, "don't screw this up. I'll see you at lunch."

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Thinking about it weeks later, she almost blamed her mother's house for everything. She knew Derek hated the youth hostel, hated her picking up strays. That might even have been their problem, if Cristina were still turning up in their bed, and Alex hosting another parade of women. But Cristina was too embroiled with Owen to visit, and Alex, when he returned at all, slept alone on the faded Oriental rug in the den.

She doubted that mattered anyway, after their last fight over the dream house, after Lexi and Mark had run off, after the depositions and the lawsuit, after he'd decided he'd had enough of Seattle, after he'd sold his land and gone off to a new life: to some new girl in a new bar, a new job, a new fairy tale.

She'd been careful, after Izzie's death, after her run-ins with her drunken father, very careful of the Tequila. She knew she'd dodged too many bullets already, and wondered if Alex had drawn the same conclusion, as he buried himself in work.

The den thing bugged her, though, since he never even used a pillow or a blanket. She waited a month before scraping him off the floor and pouring him into her bed, and another month before she even touched him.

It had been inadvertent, the first time, even if it was inevitable. She rolled over abruptly, jabbing him in the ribs, and was awakened by a soft grunt. It was partly his fault, since he was so damned quiet she sometimes forgot he was there, in Derek's spot. He wasn't a bed hog, or a blanket thief; he didn't roll around much, or snore. And that night, he was just bleary eyed and a little bewildered, and he didn't pull away.

She knew it was inappropriate, but it surprised her when he fumbled, when his hands and his lips moved too slowly. She realized she was his first, after Izzie, as he was hers, after Derek. She wondered which was less appropriate, but that was their thing, and safer than scavenging strangers from dimly lit bars.

She knew it was just sex anyway, that he smirked at white knights, and promises, and would never care about her crappy genes, or demand more than she could give, or care that she wasn't bright and shiny, or bubbly or blonde, or that she couldn't bake.

She knew he'd move on soon anyway, when he'd scrapped up enough money, and could afford a place with hot running water and satellite television. She knew it was just sex, but he was hygienic, and he stayed on his own side of the bed afterwards, and it had to count for something that they could both do this sober, and he fixed things, like the screen door out back and the fire place in the den.

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He hadn't noticed when she started joining him in the shower, but it got them out of the house earlier, so there was no point mentioning it. She used a different conditioner, and her hair wasn't blonde, and it felt fuller when it tangled through his fingers, and that was all that mattered. Her hands were smaller, too, and more precise when they traced soapy patterns across his back, and she didn't giggle when his hair stood in spikes as he toweled it dry, and she never hid his toothbrush.

They usually drove to the hospital together, much earlier than they needed to; he never got why she went along with that, but he left well enough alone. He'd gotten into the habit to avoid the looks he got after Izzie, as if he was some pathetic loser, and wouldn't pick up and go on like he always did.

He bailed on Peds. He hated how Arizona Robbins looked at him, like she was always on the verge of crying, or even worse crap, as if she hadn't lectured him herself on putting the coffins behind him, as if that wasn't what he was doing when he joined Hunt's service. He liked Hunt, liked trauma, liked that it wasn't sneaky, and that it didn't lie.

Trauma was blood, broken bones, mangled limbs– things you could see, things you could fix with your hands. Cancer you could miss, cancer you couldn't just cut out, or patch over, but broken bones and lacerations, those you could fight head on. Trauma was job security, too, since train wrecks would never stop coming.

Some random Tuesday, he returned to his locker, scrounging his jacket pockets for lunch money, and found two green apples, as usual. She'd started leaving them a few days after the funeral. She never said a word about them; neither did he. She didn't push him to talk, or look at him like a leper, or pity him. He could take anything, except pity. Grabbing one of the apples, he went off to meet her and Yang in the cafeteria.

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Six months later, she stammered that she expected nothing from him. It had been just sex, until the morning sickness started. She anticipated yelling, or storming out of the house, anything but stony silence as he devoured his Coco Puffs as if he held them responsible.

She knew he'd never seen this coming, and that he'd already given up on the bubbly blond children that lingered in a test tube somewhere, frozen in time, the only children he'd ever really want.

She was sure he'd bail, and the whole situation was crazy, and she wasn't the baby type, and she hated stuffed animals, and even thinking of names spooked her. She was sure he was just as freaked. But the crib that she ordered got built, and a hideous purple plush elephant appeared in Emma's crib the day they brought her home.

A few months later, she woke with a start, her arm sweeping the empty bed beside her. She sat up abruptly, foggy and disoriented, half sure he'd finally had enough of these sleepless nights. She'd almost convinced herself that he'd taken off for good, just in the time it took her to stagger across the hall.

She saw him lying on the floor of his old bedroom, with Emma perched on his chest as he told her about the trophies on the windowsill. As her heart stopped pounding in her ears, she listened as he recounted some long ago wrestling victory. She never understood why he lugged those trophies around, even when he'd lived in his car, or in a cardboard box behind Joe's, or wherever he'd resided before he turned up at her door.

But his sleepy rambling continued, and she knew that he was stuck, that he too was frozen in time, that he still didn't have a dime, and that her house was still a palace to him, with its hot running water and its satellite sports television. She wondered if he'd make it through her daughter's first year, until she could finally think straight again, and sort things out.

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Alex swung briskly through the hospital, cringing as the nurses oohed and aahed over her. He hated the baby bag with the insipid cartoon animals, hated these daily arguments. He hated that look on Mer's face, like day care was the worst thing they could ever do, as if she didn't notice that her own hands were shaking because she was so tired, as if she didn't see that this was only way they'd finish their residencies.

He knew she'd resent him, that she'd see him as a crap parent, that she'd anticipated something else once, a kid with blue eyes and McDreamy hair – but screw that. He'd already played fake daddy to Rebecca's delusions, already spawned in a freaking test tube; he'd had enough of peoples' fantasies.

Stowing the baby bag in her cubby, he settled Em down near the block table, her favorite toy. He nodded curtly to the day care teachers, rising to leave, but she tugged him back down to see her latest creation. He watched her nimble fingers stack the brightly colored shapes, wondering if she might be a surgeon someday, or an architect. He brushed the idea away as quickly as it came: He knew better than to think of the future.

He watched as her friends arrived, tossing their coats aside and gleefully joining her at the play table, a slight smile pulling at his lips. Wide-eyed and sweet, she was a happy, popular, out-going kid. He breathed a sigh of relief as he returned to his work, hoping that whatever she became, she'd be nothing like him.

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Meredith rushed home, running late though she'd only had one surgery that day. It was his fault anyway, that he'd had to pick Emma up despite working a double shift, since the whole day care thing was his idea. She was sure her mother would have loved day care; that made her loathe it all the more.

Climbing the stairs to her daughter's bedroom, she pushed the door open, disturbed by the ominous silence. She found Emma sleeping on the floor with her favorite blanket, and Alex a few feet away, asleep in a puddle of crayons, his hand half poised above a nearly completed dinosaur picture.

She smirked at its jagged edges, well aware that he sometimes encouraged Emma to color outside of the lines, just because it bugged the day care teachers – and her mother. She considered putting it up on the refrigerator, but remembered Cristina taunting him about the last one, and asking him when he was going to learn how to print like a big boy too.

Crossing the room, she scooped up her daughter and settled her into her bed, not wanting. to think about what the kitchen looked like, or what he had counted as a vegetable that evening. She considered leaving him where he was, but knew he'd be stiff and grumpy in the morning. Waking him briskly, she told him to go to bed and went off to take a bath.

Later that week, she watched Emma scramble into his lap, a colorful storybook and her stuffed elephant of mysterious origins in tow. It scared her that he could do funny voices. It alarmed her even more that he knew she preferred her yellow blanket, and that the elephant had to sleep on his left side with his nose pointed out of the bed slats, otherwise he "snored like mommy." It annoyed her that he laughed at that, covertly entering into Emma's anti-snoring crusade.

It frightened her even more the following winter, when she watched him secure her hat as they went off to sled, and she took his hand as if he belonged to her, as if she expected him to follow her anywhere. It terrified her, what she'd tell Emma when he finished his residency and disappeared - across town or across the country. She wondered how she'd explain why he left her behind, why he'd no longer recognize her in school pictures, amid the sea of other little girls.

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He'd seen the forms on the kitchen table, near the Marshmallow Fruity Pebbles she bought for him while grumbling that he ate like a four year old. Their residencies would end soon, and he knew she was just bidding her time, amid the blur of 80 hour work weeks and childcare and fellowship applications, until she could move on. He knew she hated the house, and hated him for getting her pregnant, and resented him still scrounging for lunch money when there was already a kid to support.

Sitting in front of his locker between surgeries, he pulled out his phone, leaving another message telling her he'd be late. She hadn't answered the first two, but he knew she'd figure he wasn't coming back at all if he didn't call. He knew she'd given up on that McDreamy crap years ago, but it annoyed him that she thought he'd just take off on Em.

He knew he was no prize as a father. But at least Em didn't cringe when he took her hand, or hide when he got back from the hospital, or flinch when he walked into the room. Sometimes, she even hugged him; sometimes, he even made her laugh.

He shuffled the papers in his hands, swimming in a sea of application forms. It was easy for Yang, who'd had her choice of Cardio slots, and was starting at Seattle Presbyterian in the fall. It was easier for Mer too, who'd already done a clinical trial, and who already had the pedigree, and who was a kick-ass surgeon.

He still watched her surgeries sometimes, perched in the back of the gallery, as he had since her first solo, and he knew she was the best in their class – to hell with Yang. He knew the Shepherd method was really her doing, even if that loser had taken the credit. He knew she could rival Ellis Grey, if nothing else got in her way. He knew she'd have her pick of positions at name hospitals, that she'd make more money in a year as a Neuro attending then he'd make in a decade, and that she'd soon be able to put Seattle behind her completely.

He knew that he'd decided too late to specialize in trauma, that he was no rising star, and would be lucky just to get a spot somewhere. He laughed bitterly at that: He was always too late, too late to save his mother, too late to save Rebecca, too late to save Iz. He remembered how she'd promised him that it wasn't too late for them, just days before he missed all the signs, just weeks before he watched his future buried with her.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he threw his phone back in his locker, reminding himself that they'd have to decide soon what to do about Em. He knew he'd never have the freedom to move anywhere that Mer would. But he knew better than to plan, anyway. He knew that Em had been an accident, that this wasn't the life Mer wanted; he just wondered if it would ever count for something, that at least Em wasn't afraid of him.

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She heard his footsteps in the hall, heard the old floor boards creak, and heard the shower running across the hall. It was 3 am, a few hours since he'd last called, leaving a message about some five car pile up on the freeway. They'd squabbled about that enough that he probably called out of habit. She bet he resented it, and sometimes she wondered if she hadn't pushed the matter just to drive him away.

She knew he'd think she didn't trust him, and that it would never occur to him that someone might worry about him, or miss him. She knew he'd never want that, anyway, that he'd want more freedom – as soon as he wasn't working eighty hour weeks and scrambling to catch up in his specialty and scrounging for lunch money.

With weeks left in their residencies, it was just a matter of time before he took off for a state-of-the-art emergency room somewhere. She knew he'd be a great trauma surgeon; she'd even heard Cristina grousing about the glowing recommendation letters Owen had written.

She was glad she encouraged his choice, especially after she'd caught his shy half smile in the ambulance bay the week before, after he'd expertly worked a major industrial accident. She was happy he'd found something to hold on to, after Izzie. She didn't want to hold him back, to have him resent Emma – the way her mother had resented her.

She didn't know where he'd applied, and was still waiting anxiously for word from any of the Seattle hospitals that would have her. That would never have been her first choice, before Emma. But with Cristina already snatched up by Seattle Pres, it made more sense to stay, so Emma wouldn't lose her home and Alex at the same time.

She felt him sink into the bed beside her, still damp from his shower, and asleep almost before he hit the pillow. She lay quietly for several minutes before rolling over and slipping her arms around him. She could always tell how well his surgeries had gone by the set of his shoulders, and how long they'd been by the stiffness in his lower back.

She traced her fingers along his spine, burrowing into the muscles below his shoulder blades, as his breathing slowed, the tension evaporating from his body. She was sure he'd hate that she did this, and be horrified that she noticed, that he slept better afterwards.

She exhaled slowly, reminding herself that she needed to talk with him this weekend for sure, about the job thing. But morning came, and it was a playoff weekend, and she found herself picking at her salad while Alex and Cristina bet on the game, taunting each other throughout, while Owen insisted that soccer was more exciting.

She'd hoped to spare Emma these snark fests, and cringed, wondering how she'd ever explain to Child Protective Services how the four year old daughter of two doctors could believe that pizza was a vegetable, but still explain the intricacies of a point spread. But she knew it didn't matter anyway, since his trophies would soon be boxed up, and he'd soon have his own television with every sports channel known to man.

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He noticed she'd been quieter these past few weeks, as if she was already pulling away. He tried to ignore it, but he'd done the denial thing enough to know when another train was coming. It kept him awake some nights, rumbling along the tracks, though that night he was sure it was just the rain on the roof, reminding him to check for loose shingles.

He wondered if she heard the train, too. But he knew it was just a draft from the window prompting her to shift in her sleep, burrowing into his chest. He almost shivered, too, his lips brushing her hair as he wrapped his arms more tightly around her. It scared him how well he knew the cadence of her breathing, and the sound of each soft sigh as his fingers out-lined her body, as if testing to see if she was still really there.

It scared him that he knew what was coming. He'd done crazy before, done nothing but crazy for so long that he knew how easy it was to believe that something was there when it wasn't. He knew that it was just sex, and that she was just cold, and that she was too busy and too tired to troll the bars, and there was Em to consider.

He knew that he shouldn't be tracing his fingers so slowly along the sweet spots near her hips, which always made her whimper even as she slept. He knew he shouldn't tease the silky curve of her back, which always drew her even closer into him, and that he should have stopped any of this long before, stopped losing himself in the feel of her skin.

He tangled a stray lock of her hair, as if expecting it to singe his fingers. He'd done this before, too, watch women sleep. He watched his mother, when she stumbled through her bad patches, as too many pill bottles loomed on her night stand. He watched Rebecca, before she slit her wrists. He watched Iz, watched her for weeks from the hard plastic chair beside her bed, as her breathing finally stilled and her hand slipped from his.

He tried to concentrate on the rain, on anything but the warmth of Mer's body. He knew it wasn't supposed to be this way. He'd known all along that guys like him didn't live in palaces, and that the freaking train kept a regular schedule –running right through his life.

This was the last week of their residencies, and job offers to the top candidates had gone out days ago. Almost everyone had heard where they'd be going. Yang had already been chortling for weeks about setting up a Cardio wing at Seattle Pres, and he was sure Mer had heard from her first choice, wherever that was. He wondered when she'd tell him.

He'd be one of the last to hear, because Trauma was so low on the surgical food chain, and he'd strayed into it late, and he'd spent enough time in bars to know that the strays always fought over the scraps. At least he wasn't a baby catcher, though; even Iz had teased him about that one, and Yang had only recently stopped calling him Evil Stork. But he wondered where Mer would be off to, and how they'd manage with Em.

He received his letter the following day, opening it with trembling hands, and surprised to find that he'd be staying in Owen's department. He almost felt a flicker of excitement as he signed the offer letter, determined to return it to the business office before they could change their minds.

He wanted to tell Em, but she knew nothing about any of this; he wanted to tell Mer, but his throat ran dry, envisioning her and Em across the state or across the country, Em with a surfboard, or a pony, or who knows what she'd want, now that Mer could settle down somewhere and give her everything.

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She found a copy of his signed contract on the kitchen table, under a battered cereal box with the top half torn off. She had no idea what this meant, and stared at the paper until Emma bounced into the room, reminding her to bring an apple for daddy's lunch, and rattling through the cereal box with a scowl, grousing that he beat her to the prize – again.

She considered lecturing her daughter on the propriety of pawing through cereal boxes, but that hadn't worked on Alex, and she doubted it would work any better on her equally hard-headed daughter. She got why he did it, anyway; she knew that he kept them in his lab coat, and she knew why, and that seemed as good a use of them as any.

She didn't see him when she arrived later that morning, but she put two green apples in his locker, atop her own job offer from Seattle Presbyterian. She told Cristina right away, and then told her everything else, ignoring her friend's horrified expression. She had no better idea how to tell him, except that he'd need to get the crib down from the attic, and find another hideous stuffed elephant.

She wondered if this was a bad thing, because he was staying in Seattle, and he didn't seem to mind her crappy genes, or to notice that Emma wasn't blonde or bubbly, or that she had split ends. But they still hadn't talked about the job thing, and he sure hadn't seen this coming, and she was sure he was already half gone, off to his new life, and she wondered how the house would feel when he wasn't there.

She'd hated the house she'd inherited, the house her father had left behind without a second glance, the house that had always seemed too big and too cold and too empty when she was a child. She'd toyed with selling it almost immediately, before Izzie had redecorated, and Cristina had dug through her mother's diaries, and Alex had fixed the fire place in the den. She'd hated the house again after Izzie died, and Derek left, and it again grew too big and too quiet. Sometimes, she thought the damn place was haunted.

She was terrified this time, too, but a week later she found the crib reassembled and the window sills freshly painted. They argued over the wall coverings, bizarrely, she thought, since he never cared much about colors or patterns before. She was sure that it was really this latest bombshell freaking him out, and that he was taking his frustrations out on her through paint samples and rug swatches. She was sure of that, until she remembered that the room had once been Izzie's, and that Izzie had loved that wall paper, and that even if he didn't know it, he wasn't ready to see it go.

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He'd finished painting the window sills and rebuilding the crib in the new baby's room before she got home from work that day. He was still working on his to do list, a new faucet in the kitchen, some insulation for the attic, most of which he'd done without comment on her part. He wondered why she wanted to hassle with removing perfectly good wall paper, and why she'd suddenly agreed to leave it that morning.

He'd gone to bed that evening before she got home, and was mostly asleep when she sank into the bed, curling around him as her fingers played across his back. He noticed years before how warm her hands were, and how readily they unknotted his stiff muscles. He wondered why she did that for him, even when she was tired, but he figured that she'd stop if he asked her about it, which he definitely didn't want, so he said nothing.

He was almost dozing again when he felt her shift closer into him with a deep sigh, and he remembered that it was his night. He'd forgotten how they'd finally settled when the windows could be open, but he'd accepted her insistence that if they were, it was his job to keep her warm. He wondered why she'd poked him in the chest when she'd announced that the first time, as if was a chore.

Three days later, he was finishing the insulation in the attic when it occurred to him that they'd never discussed the house at all. He wondered if she'd think it was too small now, with another kid coming, and if she'd want something fancier. He knew she'd planned a mansion with Shepherd, but he liked her house. He liked the porch and the yard, liked that it was on a hill, in a perfect defensive position; it was a freaking palace.

He knew he'd be making more money soon, and could finally pull his weight if she wanted something bigger, even after he'd paid his loans and sent money to his mother. Mer never mentioned money to him – she'd always had it and he never did – and he'd never said a word about his loans or his mom. Later that week, he finally showed her the canceled checks that went to his mother's care. She'd told him she got it, and left it at that; sometimes, he wondered if Em might want to see Iowa, someday.

He sat on the porch three weeks later, on a late summer evening, watching as Em caught bugs - to his amusement and Mer's horror. He wondered if it still bothered her, that her daughter didn't have blue eyes or perfect hair, and if she was just settling here because of the kids, and when that idea had ever gotten thinkable – that they'd soon have kids as in plural – and if it was a good thing, that she was squeezing his hand as Em ran by.

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Meredith stirred in the chill air, ignoring the grunt beside her after she elbowed him in the ribs. She watched the sheer curtains flutter as a light breeze swept into their hotel room, announcing the sunrise. She knew the weather would be beautiful, as it had been the last time they'd visited, the year before.

Pulling the thin blanket around them, she listened to the surf for nearly an hour before wandering to the shower. She dressed quickly, knowing that he'd sleep at least until noon, which would let her visit the local craft markets, and get something for the girls without him complaining about her spoiling them – as if he was any better.

She heard the shower running when she returned, and hastily shoved a small package into her suit case before setting some fruit on the bedside table. She knew he'd be hungry, but nowhere near ready for a full meal. Grabbing a large orange and a magazine, and went onto the room's lanai, settling into a huge lounge chair. Fifteen minutes later, he dropped into the seat beside her, warily peeling a mango. She rolled her eyes when he asked her what it was, questioning how he ever got through medical school.

He asked her if she'd just spoken to Yang; she giggled, confirming that the girls were fine with Owen and Cristina, and were going to an amusement park over the weekend. He raised his eyebrows, but avoided comment when she poked him in the ribs again. Putting her magazine down, she slid her arms around him; she heard him sigh as she settled into his chest, wondering if he'd already dozed off again.

She knew he hated traveling, that trains and buses turned him green, and flying made him jittery and nauseous. They'd visited Hawaii several times already, just as she'd fantasized about as a kid, amid bleak Seattle winters. She'd traveled with him enough that she knew to bring extra magazines for the first day, while he slept off the travel meds he still denied taking, to get him through the flights he never admitted dreading.

She poked him again, warily meeting his eyes as she announced that she meant what she'd said the day before. She wondered what had possessed her, really, to propose to him right there in the airport as he wobbled off the plane, groggy and bleary eyed. It made no sense, since neither of them trusted promises or plans.

It made no sense until she'd been somewhere over the Pacific, stuck on page 37 of some non-descript entertainment magazine, and realized that he was already out cold, and that his hand was still in hers, and that she'd stopped noticing it.

She wondered how she'd come to take for granted that his hand would be there, and that he'd come home every evening, and be there the next morning, beside her in bed, or picking through the children's cereal for the prizes– to their dismay – or grousing about the Lions or the Tigers or the Bears or whoever the hell else was playing that season.

Rethinking the matter weeks later, she knew that people might think it was romantic or something, that they'd envision sunsets and palm trees and blue seas. She wondered if she'd ever admit that the bustling city hall was pretty drab, and that they'd spent nearly half an hour on the wrong line, and almost ended up with shark fishing licenses instead.

She wondered why he agreed so casually, with more of a shrug than any actual words, as if she'd just suggested they go to lunch, and how he found the quirky pearl ring, no doubt while scavenging some secret treasure for each of the girls.

She wondered how much damage she'd do to her daughters, marrying someone who would compete with them for cereal prizes. But she'd seen them throw their arms around him, seen them take his hand, heard them giggling as he grumbled about spilled glitter and stray hair ribbons, heard them reminding her to buy him apples, and figured they didn't need the cereal prizes anyway.

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Alex squirmed in his seat, ignoring Mer's snickers, and hoping the meds kicked in before take off. He knew that flying was safe, and he understood motion sickness, the body's misperception that it was stuck, while everything around it was moving. Still, when he felt Mer's fingers close around his, he hoped she was too far into her trashy magazine to notice how close he was to blowing mango chunks on the seat in front of him.

They'd returned to Hawaii regularly since they'd married, almost six years ago, and he still didn't know how that had happened. Her proposal seemed crazy, and he knew crazy made you believe things that couldn't be. But then she'd put her arms around him, as if she meant to keep them there, and it hit him that he might have heard her right the first time - that she wanted him for real - even if he left cored apples on the kitchen counter just to bug her.

It was easier then, to say I do to who knows what, especially since she didn't seem any clearer on their vows than he was. He figured they involved maintenance and sex, snow shoveling and snark, kid-crap refereeing and Yang toleration – but definitely not laundry. Whatever else he'd promised, he was sure that doing laundry had never been mentioned.

He figured the plane lurched, since something was making him nauseous, and he tried focusing on anything else, like what the kids might be doing, flashing a wicked grin as he pictured Yang tied up in silly string, the girls plastering make-up on her.

He tried to think of anything but the hand that he still held, even as his own fingers drew lazy circles around it. He knew it was an unconscious habit, something he'd started long ago, when it was still just sex, until she squeezed his hand. He felt the meds kicking in, relaxing into a familiar drowsiness, and he wondered if that was clouding his thinking.

He knew that was dangerous, more dangerous even than flying, to believe that she'd still be there when he woke up, that she'd always be there when he woke up, and that the kids would be waiting for them – for them, and for the beaded necklaces he got them, because they were pretty cool kids, all things considered.

He smirked at the thought, earning a suspicious glance from Mer. He knew they drove her crazy: Em all brilliant and tough and generous and snarky, with her mother's kind eyes and crazy giggle; Elly all brilliant and funny and free-spirited and independent, with her mother's huge heart and shy smile. They were Mer through and through, he thought, a sleepy grin drifting across his face as he pictured Yang pulling her hair out.

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Meredith watched the rain run down the windows, blanketing their cab as it pulled up to the house. She'd always hated Seattle's weather, and still fantasized sometimes about escaping to the tropics. Paying the driver, she stepped out into the icy torrents, grateful that they'd sent their bags ahead. She tugged Alex's sleeve, pulling him through the down pour, and steering him groggy and bleary eyed up the stairs and onto their bed.

Peeling off his soaked clothes, she wrapped their thick comforter around him, listening as his breathing steadied and he dozed off. Moments later she sank into a hot bath, and then dove under the covers, sliding her hands along his back with a mischievous giggle. She knew stroking him like that a few inches higher would spark spasms of uncontrollable laughter, that a few inches lower would prompt spasms of a more erotic sort, and that her fingers, lingering right where they were, would ease him into a deep, peaceful sleep.

She toyed with her options, but after twenty something years of traveling with him, she knew that he was exhausted from the flight, and would be grumpy enough the following morning; he fingers stayed right where they were. She knew that he was helpless when he sighed like that, anyway, his body melting into her hands. Pulling him closer to her, she listened to the rain dance across the roof, remembering that he'd replaced the old shingles and sealed the attic windows, again, before they'd left.

She wondered why he bothered when they could easily afford to pay someone to do the work, and why he'd never wanted a newer house. But she did love the porch swing, and the windows overlooking the yard where the girls used to play, and the fireplace in the den. She'd had no desire to move, not in ages, and not now with Emma getting married the following weekend. She was grateful that Emma had planned her own wedding – a tiny affair slated for their back yard – and asked few questions about theirs.

Weddings were never her thing, and she still wondered what she'd gotten herself into. She remembered that their vows had been terse, even by Alex's standards. She wasn't sure what she'd promised, really, but she figured it included some combination of hot running water and satellite television, of apples and marshmallow Coco Puffs, of sex and snark and warm fingers untying the stiff muscles below his shoulder blades.

She figured that simple worked better for them, anyway, especially the following week, as she watched Alex fiddling with his tie. He stood next to Emma on a warm Saturday evening – Emma in her shocking yellow wedding dress and dramatic white hat - and Meredith remembered when he encouraged her to color outside the lines.

He never should have done. She'd been a handful from day one, a permanent nine alarm fire, all snark and sass and attitude, and too damn smart for her own good. She was Alex all over again; Meredith sympathized with her new son-in-law.

Emma had been every teacher's nightmare, until they met her sister. Meredith shuddered, recalling the meetings in the principals' offices, her staring at the floor as Alex seethed that they were trying to make Elly just like everybody else. She knew he spoiled them, but she recalled five year old Elly jumping into his arms at the pool, as if he'd protect her from anything, and she wondered if having a fearless daughter was a bad thing.

She watched him still pulling at his tie as he wandered back to her after the ceremony, insisting that "only Em" would plan an outside wedding in Seattle, and have it fall on one of their two rain free days per year. She took his hand, kissing him softly and tugging him back into the house and up the stairs, leaving a trail of wedding attire behind them.

He'd asked her earlier that day if she wanted an actual chick ceremony, or a nicer ring. That surprised her, since sometimes she still wondered, sometimes, if he'd want his freedom back after the girls were gone. But she stirred hours later, sated and drowsy, to find him where he always was, still curled beside her, snoring softly as he half drooled on her shoulder, and really, she was starting to think that she'd never unload him.


End file.
